


Poses

by fits_in_frames



Series: Poses [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-18
Updated: 2005-09-18
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She jumps onto the desk that was once his, is now hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poses

**Author's Note:**

> _all these poses_  
>  _such beautiful poses_  
>  {rufus wainwright // poses}  
> 

She gives the door a defiant push closed when Horace finally lumbers out, just to make sure he's really gone.

And then she decides, quite suddenly, to go tabby.

She jumps onto the desk that was once his, is now hers. It feels foreign under her padded feet, as if she had never felt it as she arched her back while thin fingers stroked her all the way to the end of her tail, and frail lips pressed against the top of her head and whispered her name, expecting only a purr in response. She paces, looking up at the portraits on the wall.

They are all in various stages and positions of sleep: this one is leaning upright against the side of his frame, that one forms a triangle with one corner. The newest one has his head on his hands, and shifts three times in a very short (or very long, she can't tell) period of time, adjusting, getting comfortable in his new environment. She wants to leap on to the frame and nudge him awake, tickling his nose with her whiskers on purpose. Instead, she sits very still, very upright, watching the portrait breathe ( _they actually breathe_, she thinks) and swishes her tail a few times, idly.

She hears something rustle, snaps her head to look. The window is still open. She debates whether to leave it open for Fawkes, but decides very quickly that it doesn't matter. She leaps off the desk, changing back. She waves her hands over the lights and they all go out but one, the one right next to his portrait, the one that's never gone out for as long as she can remember. Out of habit, she almost calls into the chambers that she's left the light on, but then realizes those are _her_ chambers now (and properly now, not out of convenience). She runs a finger along the frame, smooth and new, and comes up with a thin layer of dust. "Good night, Albus," she whispers.

She stands for a long moment with her hand on the chamber door, then pushes it open.


End file.
